Ugly Affairs
by An Cathal Toirmisce
Summary: AU: "Love is not supposed to be like this. It isn't supposed to be such an ugly affair." A story about the loss of innocence, the limits of human love, betrayal and forgiveness, the vulnerability of loving another imperfect human being. Rated for sexual content, drug and alcohol use, violence, and language. (Edmund/Lucy and more)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Yes, I know that I should've been working on some other stories, but my muse just couldn't stop smiling on this one for _months. _And, so after months and months of careful planning and charting things out, I'm _finally _ready to start this story. **

**I'm really excited about this story. Why? Because it's probably the most literary thing I've ever done. There are symbols, motifs, themes, and everything. It's my attempt to weave them into the story as seamlessly as possible. I'm formatting this like a novel read for school. Because, gosh darn it, I felt like it. At the end of some chapters, I might even give little quizzes. Please humor me. I've worked my butt off for this story. At the end of the last chapter, I'll include all my notes, of themes, motifs, symbols – everything. So you can see if you guessed right. **

**PAIRINGS: AU Edmund/Lucy (I made them unrelated so it's not incest. This is a popular enough thing to do in this fandom that I don't expect anybody to be particularly surprised), Corin/Marjorie, Edmund/Anne, Lucy/Darrin, AU Peter/Susan, and a lot more. **

**And, yes, yet another M rated story from me. This time I will give no warnings, other than this one, and I have no regrets. Seriously. I am going to assume that everybody reading this is sixteen or older. **

**This story is written first-person in present-tense from at least six people, but mostly circling around Lucy, Corin, and Edmund. **

**And so, without further ado, An Cathal Tormisce, proudly presents Ugly Affairs.**

* * *

_Lucy_

I have learned everything about love in the past year. And, within that wide span of everything, I have learned nothing at all. Actually, I think that everything I've lived through to tell me what love is like is wrong. My experiences have lied to me.

I know from hearsay, from stories and fairy tales, what love is supposed to be like in theory. My own experiences have differed from that quite a bit. But I know the stories I've heard are true – I can feel it in my heart.

There is no way that loving someone who does not reciprocate could possibly cause a person to completely betray her.

There is no way that loving a person could make it so excruciatingly painful to forgive him. It is just…not possible.

Love is supposed to be kind, forgiving. You're supposed to be willing to change for the person – at least, that's what the storybooks have always told me.

Love is supposed to be limitless. It shouldn't leave after a certain amount of time or once the distance is too great to bare.

In fact – I, a girl so madly in love with another, should not have to sit with my knees tucked to my bound chest, straining to see daylight from this frostbitten cell. My fingers shouldn't be numb or alone, they should be intertwined with another's. My lips shouldn't be blue; they should be red and swollen.

Love is not supposed to be like this. It's not supposed to be such an ugly affair.

But, by now I've gotten quite ahead of myself, haven't I? I'll have to take you back, far before my voyage on the _Splendor Hyaline._

XxxxxX _**Three Years Earlier **_XxxxxX

Once upon a time, this was a world of brilliance. A world where you would see a hill, and nearly go mad wondering what was inside it. Where you would see a mountain, and you had to climb it. This was a world where you could walk into the woods, and check inside every tree, every cave—because you never knew what you'd find. It was just a person and the elements. You had to learn to work with everything the Lion gave you. That was what you had, and you didn't question it. You wanted to know what else there was—what was beyond that stream, what happened when you went east until you couldn't see land anymore. All the stories people said about their adventures, you wanted to know if they were true. And you'd never stop until you found out for yourself.

But those days are gone.

The world is moving faster than ever—but Galma is getting left behind. They sat that on the mainland they have big machines that can transport hundreds of people faster than a horse and carriage ever could. You travel so fast that the whole world, with all its mountains and streams and rolling hills, just blurs together.

What are they called again? Oh, yes. Trains.

They're creating canals and drawbridges operated by machines. Mechanical sowers, threshing machines, a new sort of aqueduct. Printing presses, spinning jennies, a powered loom. Even ships can now be manned by something other than air and the crew. It's overwhelming. I'm not sure how I feel about it.

But, how I feel has honestly never been much of an issue. Grandmamma is a rather rigid traditionalist, but even she can't deny how important it must be to modernize Galma—or so Father tells me. Though, for this, I have Father to thank. (He often acts in charge for things too unladylike for Grandmamma to waste her breath on.) He knows how in love I am with Narnia. How much I love their traditions, their culture—their Aslan. Everything. He persuaded Grandmamma to send _me _to learn about the mainland's industrialisation. I'm to speak with King Rilian about Narnia's industrialisation; with King Miraz II for Telmar's; with King Lune for Archenland; and with the Tisroc for Calormen. For two years, I'm not due back to Galma. I'll be traveling, and having adventures—just like in storybooks. My base will be in Narnia, though. I'll live there between travels, in Cair Paravel—a castle I have dreamt about many times.

Not only that, but I will be in such wonderful company. My dear friend Darrin will be with me every step of the way. Every day on the voyage thus far, we sit in my cabin and have a few cups of tea. Grandmamma always says that a lady doesn't take more than one—especially if they want an alluring figure, but when I sit and talk with Darrin, I never want teatime to end.

Sometimes we'll speak of nothing more important than the weather.

"It really is lovely today," I'll say.

Darrin will nod, and say something akin to, "It always is, at sea. As long as the waves are delicate 'nough."

I'll always agree, and no matter what, we'll always have a pleasant conversation.

Even if we speak of something important. The family Darrin left behind in Archenland when he went to Galma with his father. When my mother died. Or anything else. We'll comfort one another, suggest things to cheer one another up.

As long as it's teatime, Darrin and I will be together. We simply get along famously.

XxxxxxxX

Two years ago, I had overheard Grandmamma saying that I didn't have a pretty face. She said I looked like Father, and it was a pity there was nothing to remind us of Mother. I often feel as though I should miss Mother—but it's difficult to miss someone you've never met. I feel awful for that—but somehow I can't imagine her. I can't imagine her rocking me as a baby. I can't imagine going on long horseback rides through the mountains to see all of the coastlines of Galma. I can't imagine her. But, I would bet everything that she was lovely. By portraits I've seen in the halls, she was beautiful, too. Like something out of a storybook. So unlike me in every way, I imagine.

Grandmamma also said that I didn't act girlish enough, either. She said that maybe if Mother had lived when I was born, she would have molded me into a lady. Maybe she would have. The problem is, I can't imagine what I'd be like if she had. Would I never climb trees? Would I sit up straight all the time? Would I not practice my archery? Would I still read? From the way Grandmamma had said it, it seems as though she thinks I'd be a different person – a better person – if Mother had lived.

I used to always doubt that I could become better. After all, I always have tried to do my best. I worked on my dreadful sewing and samplers until my fingers were blue. I studied culture of other countries as hard as I could. I tired to be compassionate, as she always said a lady should be. But, somehow, it was not enough for the Grand Duchess of Galma.

But now? Grandmamma was right. I have just sunk lower than anybody else in our castle—I could not be worse than I am now.

I've killed someone. I can't believe it; my hands tremble as I get out of bed, and look down at the body of the captain. He had had a butcher's knife in his hands, but now it's lodged into his stomach. I begin to realise what happened. He had come into my chambers in the middle of the night, wielding the knife high above his head. I was having a wonderful dream, one about a hill and a sword and a brave knight. But, just at the right moment, I had heard a mighty roaring in my ears. Shocked by hearing Aslan in my dreams, my eyes had fluttered open, and I saw the silhouette wielding the great knife above me.

I didn't mean to kill him. I was afraid, and so I grabbed his arm, and out of fear, twisted it away from me, lodging his weapon into his stomach.

The weapon he meant to use on me.

I can't think of a reason anyone would want to kill me. They say that nobility are always targets, but I'm not sure I believe that, even now. My father always took the greatest precautions whenever we went about amongst the other Galma, but I could never see why.

Maybe I'm beginning to. I'm not entirely sure. All I know is that I feel sick to my stomach, and I'm about to vomit. The captain's eyes are vacant, and manifesting into my skull. I'll never be able to forget this. Ever.

Oh, Aslan. I've killed someone. I've taken someone and ended his life. He was not a young man, but that does not make a difference. He probably has a family back in Galma. A family that doesn't have a father, a son, or a grandfather anymore, because of me.

Out of my wits, I grab a dark lantern, and I run out of my cabin. The waves slosh over the side of the _Splendor Hyaline, _and the water's black, uninviting, murky, and frightening.

There are a few crewmembers out smoking on the deck, they stare at me as though I'm some rarity, and not always up on the deck, speaking with them. It was as though they don't expect to see me.

One crewmember, a tall man with a russet beard, approaches me, "Your Grace," he says. "Is something bothering you?"

I open my mouth to ask for help. But, I find myself tripping on my tongue. Something isn't right. There's something in his eyes that is, honestly, very wrong.

"My lady," the man says. "Tell me, is there a reason you have come on the deck so abruptly?"

"I—I," I stammer, still trembling, this time with fear. "I wanted to see Darrin."

"At this hour of night? That's mighty improper, for a girl to see a boy so late at night. I can't allow that, you must go back to bed now, your Grace."

I shake my head, rooted to the spot. "No, no. It's not improper at all. It's, erm," I search my head for a lie. Anything. Anything to get me away from here. "An Archenlandish tradition. On the full moon, I have to come and see him, and we have..erm…cakes."

The man shakes his head. "You're an unconvincing liar."

"Either way," I say, trying to gain control of my trembling. It's not working. Please, Aslan, help me. "As a Lady, you must let me pass."

"Of course," the man says reluctantly, and backs away, hissing. "As you wish."

There's something about the way he speaks, the way he says things that sends shivers up and down my spine and makes me start quaking all over again.

I run down below the deck, to where the hammocks are kept. I find Darrin, my red-haired, freckled Archenlandish friend, snoring loudly on the hammock.

"Darrin?" I whisper, shaking the hammock, accidentally making him fall out. "Oh, I'm sorry."

Rubbing his head, Darrin struggles to stand.

"Wait a minute," he says, "Where am I?"

"Below the deck," I say. "Where you sleep."

He turns white. "Are you all right, Lucy?"

He's the only one sleeping down here at the moment, so I bite my lip and blurt out everything.

To my surprise, Darrin turns even whiter.

"Damn it." He mutters, looking around himself. "Are you okay? Did they hurt you?"

I shake my head. "I'm fine. But I killed someone. Darrin, I'm a murderer."

He looks at me as though I'm balmy. "You killed the man who was going to kill you. Sounds fair enough to me."

It's my turn to stare at him. "That doesn't make it right."

"Lu," he said, holding my shoulders. "I suppose it's possible that they've been wanting to kill you ever since we've left Galma. I've been acting as a bit of a guard for you, just in case, honestly. I guess they got fed up with me and had me drugged."

I blink. I can't explain why I suddenly feel calm, with my shoulders under Darrin's hands, but I do. By now, it's almost surreal. "Hold on. They've wanted to kill me? Why? What did I do?"

"You're in a powerful position. You're the granddaughter of the most powerful woman on Galma. Have you ever heard of a powerless person being assassinated?" Darrin said, and he watched me think about it. "No. Money and power. That's all most men care about these days. And, possibly, for revenge on your father and grandmother."

"Revenge?" I echo. "Why would they want revenge on Father?"

To my utterly baffled expression, Darrin raises his brows at me. "Politics. Lucy, he's the man who taxes them. The man who's outlawed certain types of whiskey and other things. He's their oppressor. You're his only daughter. With his temper, they could all but start a war."

I take a step back. Oppressor? My father, an oppressor? I had never even considered any way that people could feel any other way to him than I do. Is this really how the Galmaians feel about him? They want to make him hurt? Maybe some of _his_ laws are a little odd, but no odder than Grandmamma's laws-but that doesn't make him a bad man. All I can think about is all the times he's rocked me to sleep because I've been afraid of a thunderstorm.

"But, that's neither here nor there." Darrin says, breaking me from my thoughts. "We need to do something about this. This gives them the perfect excuse to, at least, have you taken in chains when we get to the mainland. They'll have you framed as a murderer, demand the money you had with you as payment for the loss of their captain, and then see you at the end of the hangman's noose."

"I thought you said they wanted to kill me?" My mind is reeling, and I want to sit down. The ship sways underneath my feet, and I can feel myself losing equilibrium, but I stay rooted to the spot.

"It'd be too obvious. They'd sooner be able to throw a girl's body overboard and say she fell than explain both a girl and a captain's deaths."

"Oh," I say, unable to force more from my vocal chords. My mouth feels dry, and I can't shake the image of the bearded captain bleeding on my rug.

I never knew blood was so red before…

"That's it!" Darrin says, startling me. "We make it look like you jumped overboard. By faking your suicide, we can let you hide in plain sight until we get to the mainland. Then, you can run off, and…" he faded. "And wait until I can think of a better plan."

I nod. Pausing, I murmur, "Do you think the captain was suffering for long? Before he…"

"Lu-cee!" Darrin cuts me off. "We have more important things to worry about than that."

Well, he's just being impossible.

"It's important to _me_." I insist, putting my hands on my hips.

"There'll be no more of that, my lady," Darrin says suddenly.

I blink. "What?"

"Those girlish positions. There's only one way I can see you getting off this ship alive."

"I'm listening," I tell him.

"Well, Lady Lucy. You probably aren't going to like this, but," Darrin says slowly, "We're going to have to turn you into a man."

XxxxxxxX

I'm standing on the prow of the ship. I have to make this quick, Darrin said. I need to make sure the crew sees me, but doesn't have enough time to pull me back in. I'm holding a long fraying rope so hard my hands are white. I try to breathe. Have my lungs suddenly turned to lead? Has my throat filled with sand?

All right, Lucy. Focus on something else. Anything else. Darrin is hidden in the shadows—but he's there. He's waiting in a lifeboat to lift me out of the water, and then he will help me. He has the other end of the rope I'm holding. He's _there. _I know he is. He's always been there.

I hear a crewman shouting from the other side of the ship. Something along the lines of '_What the hell are you doing?' _But perhaps a bit more profane than that.

This is it.

I pray nothing will go wrong.

Please Aslan, let this work.

I jump.

_Please, Aslan. Please. _

The water is so cold. My head hurts—it feels like it's been hit with a hammer, but I stay under. I have to stay under. My lungs feel even heavier now. I can't breathe. I'm dizzy. The waves pull me. Oh, Aslan, I'm moving so quickly. Am I going down? Up? The tide's taking me away! Did I let go of the rope?

I'm moving. Moving too quickly. I'll be stuck under the ship!

I scream. Cold water floods into my mouth. Down my throat.

Don't go to sleep.

Don't go to sleep.

This is bad.

Don't go to—

All of a sudden, I wake up. I'm on some sort of splintery wood that's covering my back with slivers. I caught and splutter, suddenly, water expels from my lungs.

The world comes into focus after that. I'm staring up at a familiar face. Darrin is kneeling over me, holding my head. I'm in the lifeboat. He must have pulled me up after all.

He sighs loudly and, without saying a word, pulls me in. We embrace and he kisses my cheek, muttering about how he thought I died.

I reply to him. "I'm here."

Oh, Darrin. He really is a wonderful friend. I don't even remember when he first came to Galma from Archenland—we were both only five. All I know is that we were inseparable. We would run down to the kitchen after racing about on ponies and beg the cook for pastries. We used to run down the corridor, make lavish and impossible stories with unbelievable heroes. When I scraped my knees climbing a tree, he would wrap it himself and kiss me on the head. Our whole lives, we have been together. And, he will be here for me tonight. Even after what I've done, he's still here for me. I love him. It's as though we're brother and sister, sometimes – nothing can ruin our opinions of each other.

Absolutely nothing.

XxxxxX

I'm a little nervous when Darrin and I exchange glances. This is the second time tonight someone has approached my head with a knife.

I sigh, and nod to him. I've never really cared that much about my hair, anyhow. It's usually snarled or frizzed, or pulled back into a braid of some kind. I can't say I was ever proud of it. Or, actually, of anything remotely girlish. I'm not beautiful by a long shot, and I've been told this enough to know it, and let's just say it won't take very much to hide a womanly figure. Suddenly, it seems much easier to become a man.

"Are you ready, Lucy?" Darrin asks me, grabbing a lock of my hair and holding his knife to it.

I nod. "Do it."

The first lock of my hair falls to the ground a second after I hear it slice through. For some reason I'm holding my breath. More and more of my hair flies, and the slicing noise continues on and on, until I'm staring at the ground, covered in fine, blonde locks, curling on their own in a way they never would on my head.

He finds me a looking-glass, spattered with grime and dust from being on the bottom of the ship, and lets me have a look at myself. My head looks like it's a different shape; longer and leaner than it had before. I wonder if it's always looked that way and I never bothered to take notice of it. It's all cropped close to my head now, and thicker on the top, messy and going in whatever way it pleases, and my fringe sweeps across my forehead slightly.

I nod. "Thanks." I say, unsure of what else to do at this point. For all intents and purposes, after all, I _am_ dead.

Lucy Pevensie is dead. In a way, I am becoming a new person. But, I'm never going to be able to wash the blood off my hands. I keep on seeing the captain in the back of my heads. His vacant face, his beard stained with red on the bottom, and, most of all, his lifeless gray eyes.

Darrin hands me a set of clothes; maroon trousers and a cherry tunic for over it, stained from who knew what. He also handed me a large bandage and told me that I ought to bind my chest.

I'm not sure there's much to bind, or that it's going to make that much of a difference, but I oblige to him, knowing he's only trying to help.

As I change, Darrin goes into a corner, and pulls out a long-necked bottle.

"What's that?" I ask, tying the collar of the tunic.

"Dye," Darrin admitted. "I bought it before we left. I was hoping to darken my hair colour before we got to Narnia. Make myself a bit more attractive…"

He blushes and I smile. I've never thought him unattractive, I suppose. His hair colour has never bothered me, and neither have his freckles, even though both are unfashionable. It's just the way he looks. I suppose in this way we relate; neither one of us are considered very handsome.

However, I don't understand why he's pulling out the bottle of dye now.

"You still look like yourself," he says. "We've have to dye your hair and brows brown."

I take it into my hand, smelling it tentatively, and try to stop from gagging in disgust. Oh! It's ghastly!

"What's in it?" I ask, suppressing gagging.

"Pomegranate seeds and quicklime." He admits. "Now, sit down, and let me dye your hair."

Such an unmanly sentence had never come out of Darrin's mouth before.

I consent, and allow him to dump the mixture onto my short hair, and wipe it along my eyebrows, combing it in with a horsehair brush, turning it brown. We sit in wait for one long hour. I hold my breath at the men walking about on the deck; Darrin hushes me and reminds me to calm down.

I don't see how I can. I don't see how _he _can.

After he washes the dye out with beer (the drinking water is far too valuable to waste on this matter), I peek into the looking glass a second time. My hair's now a chestnut colour, but I have to say I'm almost pleased with it. It's queer to think of such things at a time like this, I know. But, perhaps that's why. Maybe I'm noticing more and thinking more about everything because of what I've done. It's heightened my senses a bit, I hate to admit and refuse to explain. But, as strange as it seemed, this new girl with the chestnut-coloured, close-cropped hair in boy's clothing looked more like myself than the little blonde lady who had first boarded the _Splendor Hyaline. _

"Well, Lucy," Darrin says, coughing, and I wonder if he's falling ill. "Right about now you could almost pass for a boy. If I didn't know better, I'd say you actually weren't yourself."

He's right, I realise. I'm not who I was a week ago. Lucy Pevensie boarded at Galma, but someone else entirely is going come ashore in Narnia.

XxxxxX

My name is Lucy Pevensie. I'm fourteen years old, and up till now, I've been a lady living in the lap of luxury in Galma, and hating every minute of it; always itching for adventure.

Well, now I've got an adventure; I just wish I had known the price.

As of two hours ago, I've become a murderer. I hope that Aslan can forgive me and that he'll realise it was just an accident. He will, I know. And the thought comforts me a little.

There's no turning back. Two hours ago, I was a blonde little girl, with no other thoughts but the open sea air and no cares but how to help Darrin tie a knot on the masts. Two hours ago, I'd never even harmed a gnat.

But, now. Now I've killed a man, hiding from those who would want to apprehend me for my deed. I'm going to live in Narnia, as a boy, until my friend can figure out a way to keep me safe otherwise.

I realise, at this moment, that I am going to have to lie. The thought makes me cringe. I've always been honest, and I know this. I'm going to have to lie every second of every day to save myself from being hanged. The noose almost seems a kinder fate. I shake the thought away. Maybe I can find a way to be half-honest.

Half-honesty is better than complete lying.

Maybe if I keep on telling myself this, I might actually believe it some day.

Grandmamma punishes people if she even thinks they're lying. One time Darrin got a horrible clout to the ear because she thought he lied about which sword he took to practice. Once I had to sew an entire quilt together, stitching in the words "_Lies make evildoers of children" _over and over again. Oh, what had I done again? I'm sorry—I don't seem to remember.

But now I have to lie. Does that make me an evildoer? I _did _kill a man tonight. But, I didn't mean to. It's still an evil thing to do, though. Is it worse to do evil or to be evil? Grandmamma would say that actions make you who you are.

Either way, there is one thing, and this is the complete truth: I am not Lucy Pevensie anymore. She jumped from the side of the ship; she was an innocent little girl, but I've forced a knife into a man's stomach. At least Lucy died with a clear conscious. As for me, well, as I said, I'm never going to be able to wash the blood off my hands. At least not by myself.

I was Lucy Pevensie, but she jumped off the _Splendor Hyaline_ on the Ides of Spring, 1643, just a week shy of making port in Cair Paravel.

From this moment on, I am somebody else entirely.


	2. Chapter 2

Corin

For up to twelve hours a day, I'm shoveling coal into a furnace. It was really awful at first, all hot and all, but after a while, you just get used to it. Every few hours I can sneak outside and throw some water on the back of my neck while Edmund takes care of the coal, and I'll do the same for him. And, then, at least the company's decent. Edmund's a real brick from time to time, if there's something to talk about we can normally fill up the work hour with a conversation to distract from the heat. Even when he's in one of his classic moods, he's still pretty fun to mess with. If nothing else, he's always game to go to the pub afterwards.

Today, however, there really isn't anything much to talk about. It really is no fun. So we're down to the repetitive motions of picking up coal and throwing it into the greedy flames.

Three hours down. Nine more to go. I have this. Just lie back and think of boxing.

I lift up a particularly big shovel full of coal and feed it to the flame, watching it grow and get hotter. I turn around, and nearly fall back into the flames, if Edmund hadn't been there to throw me forward and balance out my equilibrium.

There, right under my nose with its obnoxious hat was a short funny-looking monopod. A Dufflepud. I'm not sure what this one's name was, but that really doesn't matter.

"Chief needs to speak with you," The Dufflepud says to me. "Straight away. And straight away is differn't from being crooked away, that's what Chief says. Right he is, too."

Edmund sends me a look intending to say, '_What the hell is that supposed to mean?' _It's a look we exchange rather frequently when our supervisors attempt to speak with us.

"All right," I say, turning back to the Dufflepud. "Straight away. See you in a bit, Ed."

XxxxxxxX

Usually, when I leave the factory early, I've done something wrong. Really wrong. Like boxing someone off his feet in the middle of the street. But, nine out of ten, they deserve it. This time, however Chief just told to head back early. Of course, I can only think that's what he said. It's hard to tell. He can be pretty idiotic sometimes. And by _sometimes_, I mean all of the time.

So, really, it shouldn't be that much of a surprise. Yeah, go ahead and tell one of the two men you have keeping the furnace going all day to go back to the House. That makes a whole hell of a lot of sense. But, hey, the moron is in charge, so what else was I to do but bid a fond farewell to Edmund and head back to the house in the ankle-deep puddles? Sometimes I wonder what possessed Lord Coriakin, the owner of the factory, to hire a Dufflepud as management, but then I realise that I really don't want to know the answer anyhow. Politics make me angry; and when I get angry someone ends up with a bloody nose.

To be perfectly honest, I really don't mind getting off duty early. It isn't as though I'm about to spend the rest of my life shoveling coal into a furnace. I'm not sure what I'll do when I'm done here, but I'll do something. I'm here for the same reason the rest of us are, because we have to be. Believe you me; nobody wants to work in a sweaty, hotter-than-hell factory. And almost none of us have a plan of any kind. We're kind of stuck here, but muddling through. The only person who I know knows exactly what he wants to do is Ed, but as for myself, I work so that I can have a bit of fun. It's kind of like the Three Little Pigs or whatever.

But, anyway, I put my tattered hat on my head and continue trudging on. The sky might have been white, with the cloud-cover and all, if it weren't for all the smokestacks all over the bloody place. As it is, it's just kind of black.

Or maybe it's later than I thought. I'm not really sure. I'm not the kind of bloke who'd actually keep track of time. I like to live in the present. Maybe after I figure out what Lord Coriakin wants from me, maybe I can go to the pub or something. I kick up a bit of water as I walk.

Oh, dryad piss that's cold!

Some of it fell into my galoshes.

I duck up onto somebody's porch and begin to filter it out, my shoe's getting covered in water, but hell if I care. I just want to get it out. And if you think that's backwards, well, I've got half a mind to box you.

"_Erm, _excuse me?" A girly voice sounds behind me.

Well, isn't that just perfect? A girl. I can't very well box a girl down, at least as long as she doesn't know how to fight. Now I have to _apologise. _I hate apologising, you know? It's just annoying. Because even if you've got a perfectly good reason—like water in your galoshes – and you don't think you'll be in the wrong, you have to apologise anyway. And that makes you a liar. It makes me thankful that my brother and I left Archenland so he could go and get married to some Calormene girl. We used to be in the Archenlander court, you know. And it was absolutely no fun. It's common people that get to have all the fun. And here in Narnia—that's all I am.

But, anyway. I'd better turn around now, shouldn't I? Better apologise.

Oh my word.

I met this girl at a pub once. She was so shy, she barely said anything. But I remember her, though. Not very many girls have white-blond hair and purple eyes.

Now. What was here name? Princeton. Something Princeton. I think it started with an 'M.'

Mary? Miriam? Margaret?

Wait. Marjorie. That's it. And it's Preston. Marjorie Preston.

However, it's obvious I didn't make as big of an impression. She's simply staring at me, as though she was trying to muster up the courage to ask me what the hell I was doing on her front porch.

"What?" I say on impulse. "It's public property."

She blinks at me.

"Actually," she says in a mousy voice. "No it's not."

"Says who?"

Honestly, I just want to hear her talk louder.

She turns completely white. "Why? Have you heard something? I thought Papa was on time with the payment."

I suddenly feel awful for what I said.

"No, I've heard nothing at all."

She sends me a look. I suppose that, maybe, if she had more audacity she might've told me what an ass I'm being. Instead, she says, "Erm…were you looking for someone? My brother?"

"No, no. I just, uh…I got something stuck in my boot."

Marjorie raises her eyebrows. At least, I think she did. Her eyebrows are so light they're almost nonexistent.

"Right." She says. "Uh—I think I'm going to, um, have to ask you to—uhh-_leave_."

"Yeah, right. No problem." I trip going down the stairs and wind up on my back in the mud.

But, it's almost worth it. She's over on the end of the porch, looking down. I swear I see at least a little concern in her eyes. For _me_.

She says nothing at all. Just looks down at me. I jump to my feet and announce, "I'm all right."

She doesn't nod. She doesn't say anything. She just blinks a few times, and slowly turns around, walking back into her house.

Without warning, suddenly I sort of hate myself. And I have absolutely no idea why.

XxxxxxxX

Lord Coriakin might just be the oddest chap I know. He's got a balding head, and a little scrubby beard that's just beginning to turn gray. One of the oddest things, though, is that he still dresses like they did in the old days. Now, I don't care much for fashion myself, but the man wears _robes. _If I tried to wear that, I'd catch myself on fire in two seconds flat. He doesn't work in the factory, though, so I guess he doesn't have to be practical.

I enter his office with my hands buried in my pockets. I could swear I've caught pneumonia after falling down into that puddle earlier. I swear it might've been about as thick as I am.

Lord Coriakin notices me, and judging by his expression, he's wondering what on earth I've been up to. He's got too much tact to voice it, however, and he just nods me in.

At this moment, I notice there's somebody sitting in the leather chair in front of his desk. I lean in to get a closer look.

I have to say I'm pretty confused.

The person sitting in the chair is _definitely _a girl. Her face is all together too feminine for the alternative. But, other than her face, she could be a boy. Her brown hair is close-cropped; she's wearing long trousers, similar to mine, and a stained shirt—with nothing underneath at all. Narnia has never been, shall we say, _famous_ for its cross-dressers, but I guess it takes all kinds. Still—there's something on her face. She looks pretty scared.

"Corin." Lord Coriakin waves me in closer. "This is Jack Rosenthal."

I guess it's my turn today to look confused.

Lord Coriakin continues, stepping closer to me. "_He_ is going to be working with you and Edmund in the furnace."

You know, that _is _one nice thing about Lord Coriakin. He takes the time to at least learn our names and what part of his factory we're working in. He is half a decent chap. Even if he doesn't realise that this Jack bloke is actually a bird.

Suddenly he puts a piece of paper in my hand.

"That's notice about your pay." Lord Coriakin says and then meanders back towards his desk.

I look down at the note. Scribbled in his scratchy penmanship I read: _See to it that nobody on the floor—or in the House—tries to take advantage of her. Keep her safe. Don't ask questions. I trust you, Thunder-Fist. _

Well, at least he's not blind. But—wait a second—how on _earth _does he know that my nickname in the pubs is Thunder-Fist? That's the one thing that's creepy about Lord Coriakin. He knows things.

I nod towards him, and he gets that I understand. Now I'm suddenly in charge of some cross-dressing girl I know nothing about—or else I could lose my job. But, hey, it'll give me a chance to pick a fight with someone and not get in trouble with him, at least.

"I'm Corin," I say to 'Jack.'

"Nice to meet you," so-called Jack says in the fakest attempt of a post-pubescent boy I've ever heard. I'm certain Ed and I might have a jolly good laugh or two over this one.

She turns red though, so I think she figured it out.

"Got a cold there, Jack?" I asked lightly.

She nodded. "Y-yeah."

Coriakin stands again. "Jack's going to room with Edmund. So you can show him there. After that, you've got the evening to yourself. But if you could show him around Beruna, I'm sure he would appreciate it greatly."

I nod, bow slightly to the lord, and lead Jack out of the room.

But, you know. I think I could have a spot of fun right now. I grab the door for her. Much to my amusement, she goes through it. I guess she's accustomed to this sort of thing. I could really have some great fun with this.

"_Corin!" _Coriakin yells after me, sounding brassed.

Okay, maybe not a _lot _of fun.

XxxxxxX

The House is really just a large boarding house that a good majority of the unmarried men who work at the factory live. My brother, Cor, and I used to room together, but then he got married and had to move out. Despite the fact that the housekeeper is a woman (if you can even assign the Macready to a sex) they aren't allowed to live there. You should have seen the Macready's face the last time a chap brought a couple of girls back from the pub (yes, he brought two home—lucky sod). She just about had an aneurysm. The funny thing is that there really isn't a rule against it—at least not one that the actual owner of the House will agree to let her enforce. I guess the Professor figures that we're going to do what we want to anyway.

I think I've started to talk aloud for some unknown reason. Jack's stopped on the stair, suddenly looking very red.

"All right?" I say, hiding my snickers.

She nodded slowly and took another step. "So, erm, does my roommate…Edward…"

"Mund."

"Sorry?"

"Oh, it's Ed_mund." _

"Right." Jack said. "Sorry. I'm just nervous."

You know, she really is kind of pathetic. I have no idea why she's here. Dressed as a man. Trying to work in a blooming train factory. I don't know why, but I really don't think she's gone through a gender reassignment for any sort of sexual reason. Don't ask me why. Call it intuition. In which case—I don't know what it could be. Father would sometimes tell me, when I came up to Narnia, that in any country, in the poorer parts of any city, you'll find people who've gone through all sorts of issues that you can't even imagine. Whatever it is, it must've been big. I can't imagine her becoming "Jack" just for the fun of it. I've only known her for a minute or two, but still.

Her room is on the third floor. I press on the wood and it comes open noiselessly. It's dark in there, but I know there's a kerosene lamp on the table right next to the door. I light it and we're standing in a pool of yellow light. There are two wire-framed beds on opposite walls. Ed's is in a corner, the sheets all over the place, and the pillow on the floor next to it near the fattest, fluffiest cat I've ever seen (but not a Talking Cat, of course. Those can be _much _fatter). I gestured to the bed near the window, all made up to fit the army's standards.

Jack just nods her head, and looks around. There isn't really much to look at. Boring brown drapes cover the window; the floor is bare and splintery. Edmund has a few books on his trunk, and she wanders over there and looks at the cover of the topmost one. I watch, curious. I guess she's the nosy type. Oh, Edmund's going to _love _her.

I give her the once over while she's standing. But the men's clothes don't lend themselves to help me. Actually, if I only saw her from behind I'd probably think she _was _a boy. Her face is simply too feminine, but that's the only thing. And maybe the fact she's much smaller than most men.

She circles the room. She stops over by Ed's nightstand. I think I should probably urge her to stop looking at his things. But maybe not. Maybe she's just trying to figure out what the man who's going to be sleeping two meters away from her is like.

"Who's this?" She asks, holding up a professional sketch of who's possibly the fittest girl on this side of the Great River.

I jam my hands into my pockets. "Anne Featherstone," I say. "She's an opera singer who's apparently this up-and-coming sensation at the Fords of Beruna Theatre."

Jack frowns. "And…is Edmund going to…bring her up here?"

Well, I'll be damned. She looks _really _uncomfortable.

"She _wishes_." I chortle darkly.

Jack frowns. "What do you mean?"

"I mean the day Edmund takes her home is the day I dive off the Frozen Waterfall stark naked."

She looks confused, and makes some sort of noncommittal clicking noise.

I give her the once-over again. So, what would that make it? The triple-over? But then, I realise something. She hasn't got anything with her. Not a suitcase, or a trunk, or a satchel.

"Say, Jacky," I say, "Don't you have anything? Any luggage? Clothes? A sketch of Mumsy?"

She shakes her head really slowly. Suddenly, she seems sad. Have I said something wrong? Then she says, "No. It's just…_me_."

I guess there's nothing else to do about it.

"Well, come on, then." I say standing up.

Jack looks really confused. "Huh?"

I _borrow_ Ed's scarf off his trunk-I _am _coming back later this evening, after all, so it can't really be called stealing. As I put it on I speak again, "I guess we'll go shopping, then."

I swear, if anyone – anyone – ever says that I ever uttered that sentence they'll be on their back with a bloody nose before you can say…

Well, before you can say Jack Rosenthal.


	3. Chapter 3

_Lucy_

Narnia isn't anything like I imagined it to be. Or at least Beruna isn't. I suppose I hadn't really understood, when I was told that it and the mainland countries were being industrialized, that it meant it was going to be so different from the storybooks.

I had read a book once that depicted Beruna as a tiny little red-roofed town, with thatched cottages and dirt roads. In this book, and this is what I was looking forward to the most, the highlight of Beruna was two trees entwined with each other from the root up. As a symbol of love or eternity, it's supposed to be in the common square in Beruna, and I strained my eyes for almost an hour trying to find it in the smog.

When Corin asked what I was looking for, and I told him, he only chortled darkly. They chopped it down twenty years ago, to make way for the new, industrialized train tracks.

The author of the book had described it so lovingly, so importantly, and now, in reality it's just gone. It doesn't seem quite fair, does it?

The little cottages have been replaced with brick complexes embroidered with grimy windows. The dirt roads have long since been paved with flat gray stones.

Everything is gray now. Even the oldest buildings, the ones that once boasted scarlet roofs, now are rusty and dull coloured. The sky is gray, clouded with pollution and smoke. Even the people, dull cloaks, dull faces, with soot in their hair.

This isn't at all what I expected.

One redeeming quality, however, I saw was the chapel. A charming little shack on top of a hill with one large stained-glass window, depicting a brilliantly coloured version of Aslan. Somehow, even in the gray light, it shone through as though there was a fire behind it. It simply took my breath away when Corin and I entered.

He shifted uncomfortably as I thumbed through a hymnal, coughing slightly.

"Say, Corin," I asked, looking up from the sheet music telling the tale of dryads dancing for Aslan. "I thought…I thought Narnia didn't have an organized religion?"

He scratched the back of his neck, and lowered his voice. "Yeah. When Narnia began to industrialise, there was an uproar amongst some people. They said the new technology was a Witch's doing. And that if Aslan had wanted us to travel fast as trains allow us, or to create all these shortcuts, he would've given us them to begin with—just as we had carriages since the beginning, and other things King Frank had with him at the dawn of time—if you believe that fireside story. They thought everything we were making…all the advancements, were Witch's doing, and that Aslan wouldn't approve. Some tried to boycott – many of them still living in the south. Some tried to protest violently, even setting some of the benefactor's houses on fire, and trying to torture those who went against the Lion."

"That doesn't make sense." How on earth could somebody try to defend something as wonderful and perfect as Aslan and deface it with violence? It was as though they were doing the opposite of what they intended to. Didn't they see it? That's simply awful.

Corin nodded. "When they tried to march on Cair Paravel, King Rilian decided he had enough. Especially when he heard they drowned a boy in the River Rush who was surveying for the railways."

At that point, I felt like I had stopped breathing. How perfectly dreadful.

"But, the King's advisors were clever about it. Rather than punish and execute the group—making the ones still alive more radical than ever and try to illustrate how horrid Narnian culture has become even further. So, they created the Church of Narnia. As of a month ago, I believe. Not that it helped the radicals. Now they think both the Church and the industry are pure blasphemy and corrupt. I'm sure the Church's support of the industry had something to do with that."

I pause. "What's your take on this, Corin?"

He sighed and blew noisily upwards, blowing his fringe around. "I dunno. I mean—Hell, I'm from Archenland, so Narnian religion doesn't mean that much to me. I'm here to work. So are you, Jack. At the same time—I don't really see the _need_ for a church. Is the industry taking people away from Aslan? Not really. Have parents stopped teaching their children the prophecies and legends? No. Even the ones that I doubt are real, children still know. So I don't really come here that often."

I'm not sure what to think about that. Even now. I don't see how anything that makes a person focus more on Aslan could be wrong, or bad by any means.

XxxxxxxX

Corin and I return to my room after about an hour. I've two pairs of trousers, a pair of boots, and a new shirt or two. I really wasn't expecting to meet an Archenlander so soon after arriving in Narnia. I would be almost nostalgic, if he was anything like Darrin. As it happens, Corin and Darrin more or less foil each other completely. Nevertheless, it's somewhat comforting to hear the accent.

I can't believe I'm actually here, doing this. It's only been about a week or two since I—since I did It. Darrin had helped me off the ship the first night it came in port at Cair Paravel. My disguise wasn't so good that the sailors who knew my face well enough—but we were able to escape unnoticed anyway.

We headed up the River Rush as quickly as possible in a little rickety junk that made poor Darrin seasick about three times. In this time, he helped me come up with my lies for the rest of my time in Narnia, while he tries to figure out what to do. He said he couldn't say with me, because he ought to go back to the ship to erase the suspicions.

While riding on the river, we formulated a plan. I was to try to find work in the first factory I found in Beruna. Then stay there until we could figure out what to do. I loathed the whole idea. I hate being so helpless. I can do things, and I can do them on my own. But…I don't want to die. I really don't.

Then, he dropped me off in Beruna, and with a quick kiss on the cheek, left me alone.

It took me a week to find Coriakin's factory, nearly all the others had turned me down, claiming I was too small. Most of them didn't even bother to interview me. But, Coriakin, he let me into his office. Asked me some questions—that was the frightening bit. I caught myself mixing up my lie once or twice, but I don't think he did—he wouldn't have hired me if he had.

Thank the Lion – I finally have a place to hide in plain sight.

I feel slightly cowardly to hide like this. To pretend I haven't done what I have, to sit about and avoid punishment. I want to stay alive, though. To be at the end of the axe, it's a frightening thought. I just have to put it away, and focus on what's currently going on.

Finally back in the room, Corin flops down on my roommate's bed lazily, and I sit on mine. His eyes drift to mine quizzically.

"Oy, Jack?" He says. "Just to let you know…we're not used to new people in the House. You might get a few…looks."

"Why?" Oh, no. It's not because it looks like I'm hiding something, is it? How could people know I've killed someone. Red-handed is supposed to be a metaphorical term.

"You're skinny." Corin says offhandedly. "The boys might try to…rough you up a bit. But, stick with me or Edmund when you go out. Y'know, avoid trouble."

"All right." I say softly, hugging my knees in towards myself. "I suppose that makes sense."

Filling his cheeks with air, Corin abruptly stands up. "Come on then. I think it might be time for tea."

I smile and follow him quickly. Finally, something I'm familiar with.

**A/N: Please review, guys. :) I do know exactly where this story is going, but comments can help me get ideas for scenes later. I have the plot and major things I need to get established figured out, but _how_ to get there is a bit of a dilemma. So please help me out! Ideas are appreciated. If you have a good enough point, I might even change something about the story. Please be involved in this story. **


	4. Chapter 4

_Edmund _

They say that when something traumatizing happens in one's childhood, one will resolve to forget it, and eventually they will. Anything to turn back the clock, or blot out the memory.

I guess it must work—and it must work bloody well, too—as I can't remember a time when I recounted it for myself. Even when I was just seven or eight, I couldn't look back on it. Then again, I was still an infant, toddling about this way and that, when it happened. So that, combined with the Fever, I guess there is no way for me to know.

This is all I've been told: I must have had a very large family, at least ten siblings, but I was the only one who survived the epidemic. It was some sickness from Ettinsmoor with a queer name, and most Narnians just called it the Fever. In the little town I had lived in, the Fever was hit the worst, perhaps because of our frequent trading with Ettinsmoor. Either way, most, if not all of the houses wound up boarded and burned to the ground. With this in mind, I guess you could say that I'm one of the lucky ones.

No one knows how long I waited in my boarded up house, with my family's bodies rotting around me, wailing my head off, but apparently I looked as though it seemed somewhere around a week. I was found, still alive, amongst the infected; apparently, I was cool to the touch, and no blisters to be seen appeared on my skin. Thus, I was deemed healthy enough to be touched, fed, and taken to a boarding school in Beruna until someone decided that they wanted to adopt me as their son.

No one did.

But, it's all right. I'm better off on my own. I can see to it that I'm fed and taken care of by my own accord. It's always been like this; I'm not trying to evoke sympathy (what would the use be in that?) all I'm trying to do I tell you what my life is like. It's not a pitiful thing, it's just the way it is.

Because of being raised at the school, I got my education early on: I could read novels and field guides by the time I was seven; by the time I was nine, I was already writing essays and little stories; I could do long equations by the time I was eleven. This being said, I was confident that I was ready to face the world, go out into this blustery, new Industry taking Narnia by storm and make Edmund Martin a force to be reckoned with. _Imagine_, I'd think, _managing a factory. _So much was becoming readily available with the new industry; people weren't stuck inside their class, they could move and make something of themselves.

I was ready to go and make something of myself.

I know what you're thinking; things never work out the way you expect. Let me tell you right now that truer words have never been spoken.

I've been a worker in this factory for years. It's the same thing every day; shoveling coal to the furnace, molding metal into this shape or that; making parts for the new railway system establishing through Narnia. I've been doing this since I was thirteen. I haven't moved. _Dufflepuds _are ahead of me. How is that even _possible_? Honestly, this seems like more of a caste than anything that was in Narnia before it.

The whole idea of industrialization is to simplify everybody's life. The problem of the matter is once you get into the factories that whole idea falls apart. For twelve hours every day, I shovel absurd amounts of coal. We melt and mold metal for the railroads that are springing up around Narnia and its neighboring countries. All day. I shovel the coal, my mate Cor pours molten iron into moulds, and somebody else releases the set iron from the cast and we start over again.

I don't mean to complain, and really, I'm not trying to. It's just that I would have thought that something would be different by now. At least a bloody pay-raise. Or something. Instead, I've got the same in my pocket that I had before I started working for the factory. That is, well, nothing. Part of my pathetic paycheck goes to rent, and the rest I put away into the bank for safekeeping. Then there's the additional plan. With a little bit of luck, a lot of planning, and a healthy dose of manipulation, I'll be wealthy enough soon enough, mark my words.

XxxxxX

I went in after work today, passed the pubs and sludge-ridden alleyways, and into the marble-white, glass-domed lobby of the opera house. I spend all together too much time there. Particularly since I hate everything about opera. I guess I just like the attention.

I know the layout of the building by heart, or at least well enough to know where Anne's practice room is. With my hands buried in my pockets, I trudge down the corridors, looking at the three meter tall portraits of the opera house's wealthiest benefactors out of my peripheral. They're all new paintings, the men dressed in the most expensive and lavish modern clothes (or so Anne tells me). Gold-trimmed waistcoats and platinum pocket watches on silver chains, and silk porkpies dot the hall.

I've been able to memorise the portraits, I've been here so bloody often.

The first portrait is one of Christopher Ronald Toll—a dwarf with an odd obsession with rings and jewelry. Toll, being a notorious perfectionist, has created a new mining system for dwarfs everywhere, ultimately making the turn out of precious gems and gold faster and in greater quantities than ever.

Opposite Toll sits Olaf Bayfield, co-creator of the engine and railway itself. Next to Bayfield was the other creator of the engine, Sir William Charles of Owlwood.

The last set of inventors sat next to Charles and Toll on the wall. Lancelyn Rogers and a Talking Fox by the name of Aiden (the only one _not _dressed in clothes, though that should honestly go without saying). The latter created the spinning jennie and printing press, while the former organised machines usable by other Talking Animals and is currently a major spokesperson for equality between Man, Beast, and other Creatures.

I don't much mind Toll, Bayfield, Charles, Rogers, or Aiden. They worked, and got to a favourable conclusion first. At times I wish I'd been the lucky one, coming to a brilliant conclusion while sitting in the university library, and now sitting in some sort of large mansion with a legacy at my feet. But that's nothing to be helped.

The rest of the portraits, are simply noblemen and investors who got rich from the industrialisation, and now worked as benefactors for the opera house: Lord Herman Dicelyn, Lady Polly Plummer, Sir Bennett Cecil, Lord Sopespian of Telmar, Master Neville Cognettes, Lord and Lady Harold Scrubb, Duke Tirian, Lord Wren Walters, Master Tumnus the Faun, Count Colin Harnes, Sir Marcus Ross, and at the very end Duke Tobias Featherstone.

I hate them all. It was so easy for them. For some reason, they were caught on the right side of industry. They made the smart business choice to invest in the right men, and here they are sitting on piles of Lions and Trees, where normal chaps like me break their back daily shoveling coal, and look forward to the ever common heat stroke every second Tuesday.

I finally make it to Anne's practice room, and after abruptly cracking my knuckles on the door, I push it open. When I first started coming here, the door was heavy as anything. But after a few years of working in the factory, it seems really light now.

The practice room is luxurious to say the least. The floor is so shiny it could almost work as a mirror, if there wasn't already an extremely tall one opposite the piano. The room has rather brilliant acoustics, with a glass domed ceiling to rival the stained glass windows in the church.

A gold plated music stand faces the wall, almost touching silk curtains. There's also a velvet sofa pushed against a wall, a shelf in a corner concealing about twenty different brands of alcohol and drugs.

Anne's facing away from me, a heap of blonde curls sitting atop of an overtly flashy gown. She's singing something in Old Narnian It sounds like she's singing about grass to me. (Then again, the word for "grass" in Old Narnian is one inflection away from a slang term for sex, so, essentially, she could be singing about either. Although I'm not sure why the latter would be in an opera.) At the piano, there's a Black Dwarf struggling to hit the right notes with his miniature sausage fingers, I can see the sweat dripping off his furry brow from concentration.

I cough lightly, and the music stops abruptly. I look up, hands still buried in my pockets, to see Anne turn around, perhaps she's about to scream at the dwarf.

However, as she turns she sees me, and gets this confused, but happy, look on her face. It's one she often has around. Cor's wife, Aravis, explained it as, 'You're a moron. Why the hell do I fancy you as much as I do?' Which, if she's right, I'm oddly all right with.

"Edmund," Anne says, giving me a quick glance of haughty derision. "Why are you all soo_t_y?"

She's stressing her 't's' again. Her manager's been criticising her Western pronunciation, I can tell. Personally, I found her accent unique, and that's part of what drew me to her in the first place, that first time I saw an opera where she headlined.

I look down at myself. Nearly all my clothes are stained black. "Corin left early, so it's been just me for most of the—"

"Do you have anything for me?"

_Day. _Thanks for interrupting me, Anne. Means a lot.

"Uh—" I search my mind for anything I missed. It isn't her birthday, it isn't any special day. No reason I should've gotten her a present. "No?"

She wrinkles her nose. "Then why are you here?"

"Wanted to see you," I mumble.

With this, she smiles, and the _You're a Moron _look halfway disappears. Turning to the dwarf accompanist, she says, "Ginarrbrik, go away."

The dwarf looks as though he wants to murder us both. I don't really blame him, even though I've never done anything to him personally.

Anne goes behind the piano, and pulls out a crystal container filled with a ruddy-looking liquid.

"S_t_ole the bo_tt_le from Father's cellar." Anne walks towards me. "Shall we?"

I grin, nodding, and take the bottle from her hands and putting it to my lips. It burns my tongue and throat as it goes down. It's whiskey, I realise. Maybe I shouldn't drink things before I find out what they are. Just a thought.

As I take the bottle away from my lips, Anne puts a perfumed handkerchief over my nose, rubbing the soot of. Once it's gone, she grabs the

bottle herself, and takes a rather large gulp.

Then, with the bottle still in hand and with whiskey on her breath, she smiles at me. "There," she says. "Tha_t_'s be_tt_er."

With this, she puts her hands on my neck, and pulls me down to her level.

My relationship with Anne is a queer one. Corin, Aravis, and Cor all think I hate her. That isn't exactly true, but it isn't exactly false. I'd never

spend so much time with someone I hate, doing the things we do. That seems like a bloody waste of time. That isn't to say that I wouldn't

rather sit in a pub with the boys or even sit in the little chapel a few blocks over for an hour or two. I'm not even sure where I stand on it. She isn't the most welcoming or understanding of people.

But, there's something about her. She makes you feel lucky to have her attention; it's obvious that she doesn't give it to a lot of people. But, still. I'm not sure I'd still be involved if she didn't have all the assets she does. I hate to be That man; the one who uses women for their own

advancement, but it is true. With her father the duke of Lantern Waste, he's powerful all throughout Narnia. If I have a prayer to manage my own factory, I'll need Duke Featherstone's help. Of course, I'd still have to be involved with Anne for that to happen. I can stretch out the relationship, however. The idea of rings and wedding bells makes me want to vomit. Though it's not entirely out of the question. She's pretty enough to look at for the rest of my life. And the fact that she's a bit on the easy side means that I already have a bit of an insight to what it'd be like to be married to her. All I'll say about that is that I won't complain in that area.

XxxxxX

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned!" I blurt out, stumbling through the double doors of the chapel.

"We don't do that here. That's a Telmarine thing, Ed," A familiar voice sounds from behind me. Or is it to the left? I can't really tell right now.

The floor feels like pudding.

"Peter?" I blink around myself, trying to make sense of it all. "Where are you, Peter?"

"Right in front of you."

All right, right in front of me. Brilliant. I look forward to see the slightly distorted face of my handsome friend. I realise I'm shaking on the

spot, the entire room is moving around, swaying underneath my feet, like the deck on a ship.

"Hello there, Peter." I say. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

"Are you drunk?"

"I'll have you know that I'm sober as a Marsh-wiggle."

I can feel the earth move. This is funny. I start to laugh. The stain glass in the chapel is starting to run together, making funny patterns. The

room hazes over.

I think Peter's glaring at me. Can't really say at the moment, though.

He sighs, letting out enough air to start a hurricane. "All right, Ed. What'd you have?"

I stumble back on myself, almost falling off, but managing to grab a bench for support. "Well…some kind of whiskey. And, erm…"

What else was there? I can't remember. I know for a fact it wasn't just the whiskey. But the exactness of foreign substances in my body is

dodgy.

"I dunno," I say, suddenly lurching over to vomit.

That's strange. I don't feel sick.

"All right," Peter says, talking slowly. "Come on. I've got some medicine."

He puts his shoulder under my arm, and walks me over to the closet. Well, more like drags me. My feet won't step correctly. Silly little buggers. Wouldn't it be funny if they hopped off my ankles and started running about by themselves? That'd be hilarious.

Peter takes me up the stairs behind the benches and sets me down on his cot. It smells like cabbage. Why does Peter's cot smell like cabbage?

He fishes around in a cupboard for something, and eventually pulls out a needle filled with a pink substance. I'm starting to feel awfully tired.

Well, you know, I have been awake since two in the morning. I suppose I have reasons to feel tired, especially after shoveling all that coal by myself.

He rolls up my sleeve and, in one swift movement, stabs me with the thing. Well, that was unnecessary.

In a moment, I can't move. I try to let my arm fly up, but somehow I can't. And in the next, the entire room loses its focus, and I'm stuck in a blurry world. But, presently, everything comes to focus again.

With this, I sit up, rubbing my forehead. "What was that?"

Peter looks at me, putting the needle into a caldron for boiling water. "What was what? What you took or what I gave you?"

"You gave me," I mutter. I'm not sure what I took, and I'm not sure I even _want _to know.

"Classified," Peter said offhandedly. "I shouldn't even be administering medicine."

I frowned. "It's not your fault, Pete."

He looked down at me though dirty, speckled lenses. Well, that's odd.

"Since when do you wear specs?" I asked suddenly.

"What?" Peter said, jolting, and suddenly removing them for cleaning on his shirttail. "Oh, they're for reading."

I lower a brow. Right_. Reading_.

I say, "You're pathetic, you know that right?"

Peter smiles at me slightly. "Absolutely."

XxxxxX

I just met Jack ten minutes ago. Corin explained that Coriakin made him my roommate. Well, brilliant, Coriakin. Room me with a girl. I don't know whom exactly Jack thinks she's fooling. Her face is just too pretty to be a bloke—her eyes are too big, her lashes too long, brows too thin, lips too soft-looking. Not to mention that she has pretty well defined hips. Her attempted voice sounds like a castrati being mangled, though.

"You must be Edmund," she said, eyes darting about.

"That's me." I said, squinting. "And you are?"

"L—Jack. Jack Rosenthal." She said, "Coriakin said we'd be roommates."

"Right." I said, then snapping my head towards Corin. "Can I talk to you for a moment in the corridor, Thunder-fist?"

As soon as we were well enough away from the room to be completely out of Jack's earshot, Corin asked me, "What's up?"

"What's up?" I repeated. "That's a girl."

"Yes." Corin blinked in a slightly irritating fashion, feigning innocence. "Yes, she is."

I waited for an elaboration, but none came. So, I bit again.

"_Why _is my new roommate a girl?"

"Hell if I know." Corin shrugged rather nonchalantly. As though it wasn't a complete oddity that Coriakin had assigned a _girl _to room with me.

"Aren't you at all curious?"

"Well, yeah." Corin admitted. "But—I dunno. There's somethin' going on with her. There was something queer in Lord Coriakin's eyes when he handed me a note. I feel—well, I feel responsible."

"_Responsibility_? I didn't know you knew the meaning of the word."

"Shut up."

So, here I am, without a single idea of why my new roommate is a girl, trying to read one of my books, while Jack sits on the bed, knees in towards her chest and thighs closer together than any boy could ever manage.

Won't she just do something else? Distract herself, do something other than stare out the bloody window? She's putting me off. Her being here, it's just too damn distracting. I'll never be able to relax after work again. Might as well become a bloody alcoholic and live in the ditch outside the pub.

This is quite futile, I decided, and close my book with a dull thud. I run a hand through my fringe, and grab a tin on the nightstand. There's three joints left from the time Corin and I snuck into an old hag's yard and plucked the leaves off her magical cherry trees. The effects were less than what I hoped for, but it worked well enough to calm my nerves.

"Have a match, Jack?" I mutter over to my new roommate.

"What?" She said, entirely soprano.

"A match." I say, holding up the joint.

"Oh," she said, lowering her voice into that obnoxious attempt for a tenor. "No, not really."

I shrug and lower the tip of the joint into the candle, it ignites and I stick the end in my mouth, letting the smoke take me away.

"Want to have tea?" I ask out of nowhere, lying on my back and staring at the splintering ceiling.

The odd thing is that I can almost _feel _Jack's icy glare on me as she says, "No, thanks, Edmund. I already had some."

I chortle. "And, what? You can only have tea once a day?"

She straightens. "Depends who I'm with."


End file.
